“To Gregory Arnold of Saint Dormans,” Simon wrote.
“Deliver your prisoner unto the King’s men who shall come for him bearing this my command, and repair at once to Montlice as I bade you.
He sprinkled sand over the sheet to dry the ink, then, shaking it off, rose and gave his note to the King.
Henry read it, and smiled.
“I think ye are a man of action, Sir Simon,” he said, “not of letters.”
Simon smiled, too, and bowed.
“I trust that this is so, my liege.”
Henry laid his parchment down.
“Until the prisoner is brought safe to London, that is all, sir. It is our pleasure that ye remain with my Lord of Granmere until we send for you. We have to thank you again for your care of our person and our realm.” He struck the gong twice, and this time a page came who conducted Simon out.
VII
How King Henry Thanked Him
There followed a fortnight of forced inactivity for Simon, but although he could do nothing further concerning the plot, he was not altogether idle. Much time he spent in exploring the city, and my Lord of Granmere contrived to keep him occupied by inviting many guests to his house, to all of whom he presented Simon. And if some of these gentlemen did not like the silent, direct young man whom they met, at least they were not in danger of easily forgetting his strangely forceful personality.
It did not occur to Simon that he might write to his lord at Montlice, assuring him of his well-being, and when Granmere offered to send a messenger with any letter that he might wish to send, he was rather surprised, and refused the offer.
“But mayhap my cousin Fulk is worried at thy long absence!” Granmere pointed out.
“That is not very likely,” Simon said.
“He may think thee dead, or lost!”
Simon smiled a little.
“He knows me too well to think that, my lord.”
Granmere waved his hands.
“But at least write him that thou hast arrived in London!”
“That he knows.”
“That thou hast seen the King!”
“That also doth he know.”
Granmere looked at him hopelessly.
“My good boy, how can he know?”
Simon smiled again, sweetly.
“Because he doth know me, my lord. What I set out to do, I do.”
Granmere sat down.
“One cannot always be sure of success, Simon.”
Simon looked inscrutable.
“Why, boy, surely thou dost know that!”
“No, my lord, that is what I will not know.”
My lord laughed at him, but he leaned forward, interested.
“Simon, suppose that thou didst engage on an impossible emprise—something in which thou couldst not succeed?”
“That were the action of a fool, my lord, and I do not think I am one.”
“Nor I!” Granmere laughed again. “Thou wouldst never set out to do the impossible?”
Simon reflected.
“Nay, I think not, sir. Yet I believe that there is a very little that is impossible. There is always a way.”
“So if ye find not that way, ye will let be? Suppose that thy greatest friend lay imprisoned, and it was seemingly impossible to rescue him, because thou hadst discovered no way? Would ye then let be?”
Simon thought it out carefully.
“Ay, my lord. But I think that I should find a way,” he said gravely.
Granmere looked him over.
“By God, I believe that thou wouldst!” he said.
At the end of the fortnight came a second summons from the King, and in obedience Simon presented himself at the Palace early one morning. As before, he was conducted to the King’s closet, but this time he found some six or seven gentlemen of the Council there beside the King. Henry gave him his hand to kiss.
“We do rejoice to see you again, Sir Simon. Methinks some apology we do owe you for the long days ye have been kept waiting.”
Simon rose from his knees.
“If during these days, sire, information has been yielded, then are they not wasted,” he said in his deep, deliberate voice.
One of the gentlemen seated about the long table, smiled. Henry saw it, and the smile was reflected in his eyes.
“Ye speak sooth, Sir Simon, and that is better than a courtier’s soft, flattering answer.” His glance flickered a shade reprovingly to the gentleman who had smiled. “Will ye not be seated, sir?”
Simon thanked him, and sat down in a vacant chair. Henry folded his hands in his sleeves.
“Ye will like to know, Sir Simon, that full inquiry has been made into this matter of Serle’s plot, and much has been discovered. The messenger whom ye waylaid came safely to London, but methinks he was something stiff of limb, and sore in every part of his worthless carcase.” He looked quizzically at Simon as he said this, and Simon gave his short laugh.
“That is possible, my liege.”
Henry ran his eyes down Simon’s large, muscular person.
“I think it was inevitable, sir,” he said solemnly. “But that is not what we would say. This man has been put to the question, and he disclosed all that he knew. I will not weary you with the details of this traitorous affair, but it will interest you to know that the tale of Richard’s living still has gained the seeming credence of many of my unfaithful nobles in the eastern counties, and even so far indeed as your Cambridge. Thus your vigilance and your promptitude have not been for little cause. Rather they are of great service and import to the realm, for because that ye have brought the news of this plot thus early to our ears, we are enabled to deal with it at once, and to crush the seeds of rebellion ere they have had time to sprout and multiply.” The gentle voice paused, then, as Simon said nothing: “This is not a little thing to have done, Sir Simon,” Henry said.
There was silence for a moment.
